Beyond the Influence
by Miranda Fox
Summary: Under the Influence postep. Easy doesn't always does it. EC


Title: Beyond the Influence

Author: Miranda

Rating: PG-13

Category: Angst

Author's notes: I wrote this on Monday night, but I didn't know you had to wait three days to post a story if you're new. Drag. Anyway, I hope everyone enjoys it and if you do, I hope I will be able to upload my other stories soon.

_Beyond the Influence_

By Miranda

Soft Jazz music brings my apartment to life suddenly and it's weird, because I don't remember turning the radio on. It's one of my favorite songs and it should make me smile, sing, maybe even dance, but I can't concentrate on the music, so I turn the radio off. My mind is not here. My mind is miles away, with my father.

The words play themselves in my head over and over again: six months, tab, 800 dollars, lies, one day at a time, alcohol. He lied to me again and I don't know why I'm so stupid that I didn't see it coming. It's not like he's never lied to me before. It's not like he's never lied to me about _this_ before. But it was different this time, or it seemed different. He had a great job, he was helping people and he loved it, he was happy. I could see it in his eyes, he was happy. So how could he do this again? How could he take that happiness and destroy it so quickly? I don't get it, and I fear I'll never get it and I want to, because I want to help him. I want him to stop; I've begged him to stop. Only he won't.

Six months. That's the longest he would have ever been without a drink. Seems like nothing, the blink of an eye, but six months without my father drinking, to me that's a lifetime. During those six months I was so happy I could barely contain myself. It wasn't until today, when I found out those six months had been a lie, that I was able to open my eyes to him again. Why do I continue to see him through rose colored glasses? Why do I have so much faith in this man who preferred to go to a bar than see me, as a child, lead my class in numerous ballet recitals?

Everything inside of me is telling me to give up. I know more about alcoholism than the next person and I know that I can't do anything to make him sober up. I know he has to take that first step alone, I know that. But for some reason that doesn't stop me from trying, and I have to try because I seem to be the only one who sticks around. My brothers are too busy with their own families to care. My mother is too busy in her own little world to notice. Other than the men who take advantage of his drunkenness to put drinks on his tab, he has nobody. And as much as I want release from this, as much as I want this to be over, the thought of going into a morgue to identify his body terrifies me.

What's worse is I know tomorrow he'll get drunk again. I know that sometime soon I'll get another phone call, if I'm lucky another drunken visit. And I'll pick up the phone and open the door, because in this little game we play, that's always been my job. That's what I do. He's the dad, but I'm the guardian, I'm the grown up. That's the way it's always been. And we're both destroying our lives with his alcoholism, but neither of us seems to be able to stop: him drinking it, me picking up the rotten pieces that stink up my life as well; that not only destroy his relationships, but destroy mine as well.

At the mere thought I can hear John's voice in my head. "I'm sorry, Calleigh. I really like you, but I can't do this anymore." He didn't explain what 'this' was, but he didn't have to. I knew. I'm sorry, Calleigh, but I can't deal with your father anymore. I'm sorry, Calleigh, maybe if your father was out of the picture, we could make it work. I'm sorry, Calleigh, but I can't be with a woman who won't let me into her life.

I understood him then, I still understand him now. If I had been in his shoes, I would've dumped me as well. But it still makes me angry. I know he has a point there. I know that as long as my father is around, I'll never find a man who will want to stay with me. It's a burden too heavy to carry. And it's fine, I can live without a man. But I don't want to. I don't want to be lonely. I don't want to die like my father lives, surrounded by people who don't seem to care. I don't wanna go to bed alone. I could, I do it every night, but I don't want to.

I spot my briefcase on the coffee table in front of me and I angrily reach for it. If I'm not going to sleep, I might as well work. I look inside, but the file I want is not there. My heart does summersaults at this. I lost the file. I lost our next case.

My hand is suddenly on the telephone and I dial a number I've dialed thousands of times before, but this one seemed different. My fingers stumble on the numbers but I don't stop. I play with my shirt as I wait and one glance at the clock reminds me it's well past midnight and calling so late is rude and inconsiderate. But just as I'm about to hang up the phone, he answers.

His voice is groggy with sleep and it makes me feel guilty. Our job is demanding and tiring and the one thing we look forward to every night is sleep. A sleepless night means a lethargic mind the next day and as CSIs, insomnia is our worst enemy. And yet here I am, waking him up. It's unfair. But I can't put the phone back on its cradle.

He asks who it is, irritated, thinking it's a prankster. And I should say something, tell him it's me and I'm sorry I called so late but I can't find the file Horatio gave us this afternoon and I was wondering if he had it. But hearing his voice suddenly created a big knot in my throat that's barely allowing me to breathe.

"Eric," I manage to blurt out, trembling at his name and that must've gotten his attention, because the next time he speaks the sleep is gone from his voice and is replaced by alarm.

"Calleigh? What's wrong?"

He's worried. He's panicking. I can practically see him sitting on his bed, reaching for his car keys. But it's not really necessary and I want to tell him that, only I can't. I want to tell him everything is okay, want to tell him I just called to make sure he got our next assignment earlier that day, but the words can't seem to push their way past my throat. I feel something wet on my face and suddenly realize I'm crying. No, not just crying, my body's shaking and I'm sobbing. And Eric is freaking out, asking me all kinds of questions I can barely understand. My mind tells him that it's okay, I'm just tired and I'm pretty sure I lost our file. But I can't verbalize it. I can't stop shaking and I don't know why.

He tells me I'm scaring him, and I want to tell him I'm scaring myself too, but I don't have the time. He tells me he'll be here in a couple of minutes and hangs up the phone. My head is practically throbbing and I try to stop this childish behavior, but the harder I try to stop, the faster the tears come. Common sense tells me it's okay, I'll just get another copy of the case in the morning and besides, Eric probably has the file with him. But it doesn't take a genius to know this isn't about the file anymore. The shock, the fear, the disappointment, the stress, the helplessness, the sadness I tried to keep locked away through the day... they all come bursting out of me in sobs. "I think I may have killed someone." I hear it in my head again and my heart feels like it's going to stop. I relive the possibility of my father being guilty, of my father going to jail, and my body fills with goosebumps. He came so close, so close I still can't quite believe it. I came so close to losing him I feel I may never get over the shock. It physically hurts.

Five minutes and I'm sure many near accidents later, Eric is at my door. He doesn't even wait for me to open, just uses the keys I gave him for emergencies and I meet him halfway to the door in a flash. I try to pretend, just for a second, that everything's okay. But if hearing his voice on the phone brought walls down, having him in front of me suddenly breaks the whole dam. I can't pretend anymore, I don't have the energy. I stumble towards him and suddenly it's hard to concentrate on what's happening. All my senses pick up is Eric, the smell of his soap, the warmth of his skin, the tenderness of his hands, rubbing circles on my back; and then my eyes burning, my muscles aching, and my head spinning. He tells me everything's okay, doesn't even ask what's wrong. He knows. My legs feel like Jell-o and he practically has to support me in the air or I'll fall. But he does it without complaining.

Guilt nearly tears me apart. Just last week I was yelling at this man for trying to protect me. Just last week I hated him for being there when he thought I was in danger. And yet here I am, feeling like if he left me right now I would die. My mind briefly lets me know that I'm a woman, a strong woman, and I shouldn't need to call a man to come and make me feel better. I don't need anybody to rescue me. But my body must disagree, because my fists are griping his shirt so hard I might rip it apart.

He continues to whisper in my ear as he guides me to the couch. I feel embarrassed, completely inappropriate, and as soon as we sit down I press my face to his chest so he can't look at me. I don't want him to see me cry. I'm not sure I could handle looking at him either.

Truth be told, Eric was the last person I wanted to find out about my father. Everything about him is so neat, so ordered, that my life of disarray doesn't quite make sense next to his. His parents have a beautiful marriage, they're happy together, they talk; they love each other so much that sometimes I wish they were my own parents. They were there for him through his childhood, he had the luxury of having a childhood, and they're always there for him even now. His mom sometimes comes to the lab, with a casserole of something that smells like home, just in case he forgot to bring his lunch, and feeds every one of us because apparently we're too skinny. He has three wonderful sisters who are close in a way my brothers and I never have been. That's the life he's lucky to have.

I didn't want him to know. I didn't want him to see me like this, like the daughter of a liar, an alcoholic, a woman who comes from chaos and brings chaos wherever she goes. And when my father showed up this morning, I would've given anything for Eric to be on vacation. And I know he feels bad because I didn't tell him, because I didn't talk to him about it or seek his professional help. But even as we sit here right now, I don't want him to know. I don't want him to judge me. I don't want him to see me as I really am, weak and pathetic.

But he knows what's wrong, it doesn't take much time for gossip to travel through the lab. I can feel it in the way his body tenses up when he sees the paperwork of Ryan's first case on the coffee table. Suddenly he's filled with anger. I hear him mutter something about my father, something that includes the words 'fuck' and 'asshole' and if I wasn't so far gone I would given him hell for it. I hear him say it's not fair for my dad to put this burden on me; it's not fair for me to have to rescue him every other week. And that's true, I know it, but he's my father, what could I do about it? But Eric doesn't understand; he doesn't get it, and I'm glad he doesn't. I'm glad he doesn't have to go through this.

When the tears stop, his shirt soaked through, I'm left with a headache and guilt. The apologies begin as soon as I realize what's going on. It's Monday night, we have to be at work in a few hours and I woke Eric up because I couldn't find a file. I made him come over because I couldn't explain that to him over the phone and now he's gonna be tired all day. And it's all gonna be my fault. But Eric brushes it off, says it's okay, says he knows I'd do the same for him. I would.

"Did you eat?" he asks as his fingers attempt to bring mine to life by playing with them, but my fingers lay limp on his thigh.

I shake my head. Food has been the last thing on my mind today.

"I'll prepare you something."

He begins to stand up but my body protests to this. Frankly, if I eat something right now I'll just throw it right up. He insists, says I have to eat something, but I refuse. So he gives up, sits there in silence. He knows that's it. He knows this is hard for me and he knows I don't want to talk about it, even though he wants me to. I won't. I've never talked about this with anyone. This is a topic I'd rather remained underground. All I want is for this day to be over.

His right hand continues to rub my back so softly, it doesn't take my eyes long to begin to drift close, my body relaxes on his and he gets it. He doesn't ask permission to put me into bed, just stands up, drags me up with him and threads his fingers through mine. As we walk to my bedroom I concentrate on them, ten fingers that are so different but somehow just fit together perfectly. I wanna know what he thinks about that, how he feels about that, but exhaustion barely allows me to walk.

Eric leaves me in the room alone so I can change. I look for something to wear, and settle on a worn out t-shirt and shorts. A little while later he comes back with a glass of water and some aspirin, and water never tasted so good before. He takes the half empty glass from me and puts it on the night table, just in case I get thirsty in the middle of the night, and he gently guides me to my bed. As I stand next to it and he rearranges the pillows, I can still see the worry in his eyes. Tears threaten to spill at this but I don't let them. He's scared. Not just scared, terrified. He's never seen me like this before. I'm pretty sure I've never seen me like this, either.

"Eric, I'm okay," I tell him, but my voice is small and trembling. He gives me a look that says he knows I'll bounce right back, but the worry is still there.

I rest my hand on his stomach, because after what happened that's as much physical contact as I'll allow myself to make. He takes my hand and rubs it, and tells me I deserve so much more than this. And I understand what he means, he means my father, he means John, and the other men who don't care if I'm smart, independent or funny, only care about the fact that I wear low cut shirts and play with guns.

"I want you to be happy, Calleigh," he continues. "I wish I could make you happy."

His words are a blow to the head. His tone of voice indicates that he's not just scared, he's hurt. He's close to tears. Only I can't see if they're there, because I can't look at him. I can't stand the thought of Eric crying because of me. Instead I concentrate on the on the carpet, on his shoes, anything but his face, and I wish I could say something but that knot in my throat is back. Tears I didn't know where left in me spring out of my eyes but they quickly fall from my eyelashes to the carpet and I'm glad they leave no evidence of their existence behind. I'm glad he can't see them. We're standing so close together, my head is right under his chin, and when I don't reply he kisses it gently, giving up, I know he's tired, too. Without any words, he urges me to get into bed.

Feeling the pillow caress my face is suddenly glorious. I hadn't realized until now how tired I am, so tired my eyes close against my will. I feel Eric moving around the room and I wanna know what he's doing, but my eyelids are so heavy I can barely lift them and my heard hurts so much I'm scared if I move it'll explode. I wanna tell him good night. I wanna tell I'm sorry for waking him up. I want to tell him he makes me happy, he's the only person in my life who makes me happy, the only person in my life who makes me laugh every day. But I'm at a loss. I don't know how to say it. Even if I wasn't so tired, I'm sure I wouldn't be able to find the right words.

My mind is somewhere between alertness and sleep when I feel his body sit on the edge of the bed. His hand is suddenly in my hair, his thumb rubbing circles on my cheek. He calls my name but I'm too tired to answer, too exhausted to even let him know I'm still somewhat awake. I feel his lips on my forehead and I know he'll leave. I know he's going home and I'll never get to thank him. Because tomorrow I'm gonna wake up and pretend nothing happened. Tomorrow I'll be too embarrassed to acknowledge what is happening this night. And he won't mention it either cause he knows me too well. So we'll just ignore it, and I'll never have the chance to say thanks.

I feel him stand up and walk away, and I never felt so alone in my entire life.

But then suddenly I feel the bed dip behind me and surprisingly, I'm not surprised. His body presses itself to my back and his long arms embrace me. I don't know what I did to deserve him. I don't know what I did that made him want to be my friend, but I've never been so grateful in my entire life. He reaches with one arm and turns the lamp off, and in the darkness I feel his head move closer to mine and his lips whisper in my ear.

"I love you."

I don't know if he means that in a friendly way or not, but my heart suddenly bangs itself against my chest nonetheless. I wanna tell him I love him too, which seems useless because even if I tell him, he'll never understand just how much. But his nose breathing on the back of my neck lulls me to sleep before I get the chance. I know I won't be able to tell him tomorrow. Tomorrow this moment will have been erased from our lives. I'll be too stubborn to bring it up and he'll be too polite. It's unfair, but that's just how we dance around each other.

In my sleep I wait for the phone call. In my sleep I wait for the drunken visit and watch as my father drives straight towards me. No amount of yelling makes him hit the brakes. He's gonna kill me. But every time I squirm, Eric holds me tighter, until the dream ends.

When I wake up the next morning, he's still next to me, his head on my pillow. Our bodies had shifted during the night and now I lay facing him, our legs tangled up together, his arm over my hip. He still looks worried, even sleeping, but I run my finger down his cheek to his chin and he smiles. We have to be up in a couple of minutes. He needs to go home and change, but I don't have the heart to wake him. So I close my eyes and wait, and after a few seconds, something in his sleep makes him draw me closer and I wonder if he meant what he said the night before, if he meant everything he said the night before. Asking seems like a ridiculous idea, I know I won't have the courage.

But I smile, because even if the world ends in a couple of hours, right now I won't have to lay in bed alone.


End file.
